


The Things I Thought I Learned, Baby, They Go Out the Window

by musiclily88



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band), Little Mix (Band), Neon Jungle (Band), One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Biting, Depression, Drama Student Louis, F/F, Fluff, Gen, Hair, Hair Kink, Hair-pulling, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Literature, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn, Porn With Plot, Scotland, Slow Burn, Theatre, University, history of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 06:31:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4252977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiclily88/pseuds/musiclily88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry imagines himself a writer and Louis has a flair for the dramatic.</p><p>Or: Harry and Louis meet at uni, and Harry just can't stay away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things I Thought I Learned, Baby, They Go Out the Window

**Author's Note:**

  * For [libraryphiliac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraryphiliac/gifts).



> I combined these following prompts:  
> -Classic college AU: Literature student!Harry (minors in creative writing) and Speech Com/Theatre student!Louis. Harry gets assigned to write the Theatre Org's next play, with Louis as the lead.  
> -Neighbur AU! Louis practices lines really loud and Harry just can't focus.
> 
> With requests about Harry's lush OTRA hair and smut and biting :D
> 
> Harry is a lit student with a passion for creative writing, and Louis basically runs the drama soc. They ALSO live next to one another in halls.
> 
> FOR LIBRARYPHILIAC

Harry stumbles into his next-room neighbour by accident, the way he does most things. His feet don’t carry him well and his legs like to twist underneath him, so sometimes his body just, sort of, falls into walls. And into people.

Into people like Louis.

Although Louis isn’t so much a person as a Greek god—isn’t so much a person as a _miracle._

So maybe Harry gasps.

Louis has beauty written into his skin, has a goldenrod tan and bright-blue eyes. He’s compact and vibrant and—

“Shit,” Harry half-screams as his knees knock against Louis’s shins, their bodies colliding painfully.

“Rather we don’t,” his neighbour replies, catching his biceps neatly. “You reckon?”

“Sure, yeah. Sorry.”

“No worries, fresher.” The beautiful goddamn stranger bites his bottom lip over a smile.

“Christ, you can tell?”

“Just a guess.” He shrugs. “So, fresher, I’m Louis. Take it easy and I’ll see you around?”

At this, Harry finally laughs. “Course you will. Harry. I live just next door.”

Louis brightens. “That you do.”

:::

Harry settles in to uni with a reeling mind, startled a bit by the raucous noises of his residence hall. He hears accents he never heard in little old Holmes Chapel: there are students from Glasgow, from Dublin, from Los Angeles and Austin. Many are posh—many went on extensive, expensive gap years to Bali or, like, Belize. But the lad who Harry rooms with isn’t snotty or anything, he’s just a guy from Mullingar who, for some reason, “really likes Nando’s.”

Niall laughs easily in a way that doesn’t feel mocking, and the tension in Harry’s spine eases gently. The advice from Alexa and Nadine still rattles around his head, the words they said to him when they all said good-bye for first term. _Be yourself. Anyone worth your time will like you for who you are._

So when Niall hangs up a poster of Katy Perry and declares her fit—like disclosing one’s sexual orientation is nothing, and Harry supposes it isn’t for most straight people, although he guesses maybe Niall could be bi, which, not the point—he takes a breath and says, “I reckon? If you fancy girls?”

“Oh, do you not?” Niall asks curiously, moving to pick up another poster to tack up on his wardrobe door.

“Not—as such.”

“So who’s your type, then? Celebrity crush ideal. Don’t say Justin Bieber, he’s mine.”

Harry laughs then, relieved. “Oh, um. I guess, like. Matty Healy? From the 1975?”

Niall purses his lips, sticking up a poster of the Irish flag. “Him, you can have.”

“Cheers, mate.”

They fall into an easy chat, asking after subjects and areas of study: Literature for Harry, both Business and Music Production for Niall.

“Think you’re going to teach, then?” Niall asks, flinging clothes haphazardly into his wardrobe.

Harry snorts. “You’re not the first to ask, but like—I don’t think so? I want to write, really.”

“Bro, that’s awesome! There’s no, like, creative writing program here, though.”

He sighs. “Yeah, but it’s—this is the best school I got into, and my mum and sister thought that it might be a good idea, coming here, since I’m not entirely sure what I want to do? So getting a good education first couldn’t, like. Hurt.”

Niall nods, frowning. “Fuck. Hey, listen, how about this. It’s freshers week so there’s like this society fair thing coming up. Wanna come with me and see if they have a creative writing one or something? There are some cool music socs I want to check out, maybe tool around with student radio.”

“Yeah, great. Yeah. Thanks.”

“Course,” Niall says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

:::

Dinner the first night is a bit weird, people still getting to know one another and trying to fall into groups, little clusters of people having stilted conversations. They lined up outside swinging doors until being ushered into the ground-floor dining room all at once. Harry swings his head around, wide-eyed, spying long tables and lots of windows. Normal, all in all.

He follows after Niall, moving to grab a tray and making quick work of charming the woman who calls him a “wee laddie” before spooning him out a large serving of potatoes.

“Strange sort of place, isn’t it?” Harry mutters to Niall as he sets his tray down next to him, trying not to stare around the room.

“Yeah, s’pose so.” He shrugs, then immediately beams at the girl who sits across from them, face set, with dark blue hair curling gently around her shoulders. “Hi, I’m Niall! I’m a first year. You’ve got awesome hair.”

She ducks her head as she laughs. “Yeah, hey. Thanks. I’m Jade.”

“This is Harry, we room together.” He thumbs over his shoulder, gesturing to Harry. “You met yours yet? Roommate?”

Jade’s quick to shake her head, flicking blue hair around her shoulders. “She hasn’t arrived yet. Got high hopes, though. We messaged a bit over the summer, like, and she’s pretty chill.”

“Is she hot?”

Harry squawks while Jade cackles, tipping her head back. “Yes, she is. And until you prove yourself, I’ll physically fight you to make sure you don’t get in her pants.”

Niall pouts. “I’m a nice guy.”

“You’re an enigma with spiky hair.”

“You’re an enigma with blue hair!”

“Exactly.” Jade blows straw paper at Niall, hitting him on one cheek. “Pass me the water?”

Niall gives her the water pitcher before voraciously attacking his food. “What’s her name, then?”

“Hm?” Jade sips at her water. “Oh, Leigh-Anne. We’re gonna start a band.”

Niall, already looking like the actual face of the sun, somehow brightens even more. “I play guitar!”

“Of course you do.”

“I do, though.”

Jade sighs heavily, rolling her eyes. “So Harry. Hi.”

“Hi, Jade.” He gives her a toothy smile, shoulders hunched. 

“You don’t play guitar, do you?”

“I know, um, three chords?”

She nods. “Okay.” She flicks her eye to Niall, who’s shoving meat and potatoes into his mouth forcefully, no space for speech. “Keep this one in line, yeah?”

“Do you want to go to the freshers fair with us? To sign up for socs and stuff?” Harry blurts, a piece of meat falling off his fork.

She bites her bottom lip. “Sure. Two days’ time, right? Half four?” Harry nods. “Okay. Let’s meet in front hall, then! I’ll see if Leigh wants to come along.”

“Yes!” Niall gently fist-pumps, giving Jade a bright smile.

“Shut it. She’s a nice person.”

He pouts. “I’m a nice person.”

“You’re a potato.”

“That’s anti-Irish bigotry!” he crows, shoving his chair backwards.

Jade laughs, tipping her head back again. “You’re funny, you are.”

“You think so?”

“Don’t read into it,” she says next, laughter keeping her voice light.

He salutes her. “Yes, ma’am.”

Jade snorts before taking her mobile out of her jeans pocket, glancing at the screen. “Anyway, I’m off, lads. Gotta see a man about a horse.”

“What’s your room number, then?” Harry asks, vision snapping into sharp focus.

“208.”

“We’re 215!” Niall says with another grin—his smile seemingly ever-present—and it makes Harry’s dimples show when he, too, smiles at Jade. 

“You’re something, all right,” she agrees, gathering her tray to dump her rubbish. “See you lads soon, yeah? Come visit me.”

“Promise,” Harry mutters, smile still soft on his face.

:::

That night is a shit-show. The end of Harry’s corridor collects in the hallway, momentarily, before shuffling into a large room at the corner of the building. Liam, one of the guys who lives there, shoves the plug into the room’s sink, filling it with cold water and turning it into a makeshift cooler for everyone’s drinks.

They all sit on the floor and play drinking games, getting to know one another without abandon or caution, liquor hot on their tongues. Louis’ sat across the room from Harry and so Harry can’t stop looking at him, can’t stop glancing at his sharp-edged jaw and his crazy-long eyelashes, can’t stop anything at all.

A girl named Asami gets told to _chin_ her drink after someone flicks a two-p coin into it, a couple of people chanting that she needs to _save the queen._ She rolls her eyes but indulges them, finishing her tepid cup of wine while the group watches. Everyone cheers when she’s finished.

“Long live the queen!” Louis calls, knee-walking across the circle to sling an arm over Asami’s shoulders. “Queen of the night.”

And she’s the queen of the night until a second-year named Ashton voms into a bin, over the din of Louis laughing loud as anything.

:::

The next day, Harry slouches into front hall in loose jeans and a plaid flannel, feeling more than a bit hungover. But a growing boy needs lunch, so—here he is. Here he arrives, only to see Louis performing a scene from _Hamlet,_ holding an oversized grapefruit in one hand and calling it Yorrick.

“Poor Yorrick! I knew him, Horatio!” Louis exclaims before chucking the grapefruit into a wall, just south of Harry’s head.

“Um.”

“Oh, sorry, mate!” Louis calls, quickly moving to collect Yorrick, poking Harry’s chin carelessly. “This fruit’s got a mind of his own.”

“Most fruits do,” Harry agrees easily, nodding with a weird sort of solemnity. He thinks maybe he’s been taken over by demons, because this is _absolutely not him._

But the statement makes Louis consider him for a moment longer. “Yeah? You know a thing or two of fruits?”

And, finally, Harry chuckles. “I know just about everything.” And, yes, he does, but—“Ought to, being one myself.”

Louis snorts. “Ought to start a club for folks like us.”

Harry’s face pinks up, he knows it does, but he tries to ignore it. “What, so we can have a cattle call?”

“Nah!” Louis’ face goes serious, his eyes widening. “Just, like, togetherness, you know? Figuring out you’re not alone is important. You know that.”

“Yeah,” Harry admits. “I do.”

“Good lad. But like, we do have a Pride group or whatever. If our rainbows won’t scare you away.”

Harry’s gaze drops down to his feet, currently shoved into glitter-gold boots. To his dubious credit, they were the first pair he located on the floor that morning in his hungover state. But they are a bit flamboyant. “Think I’m not hard to scare, really.”

Louis shrugs before moving to yank on a lock of Harry’s fringe. “Dunno. You seem skittish, love.”

Harry blushes but straightens his spine, turning to meet Louis’ gaze. “I’m really, really not.”

And Louis’ cheeks go pink.

:::

Harry, Niall, Jade, and Leigh-Anne run through the freshers fair like dervishes, signing up for anything and everything that seems even mildly interesting. Harry presses down extra hard when he writes his name and contact info for the creative writing society, imbuing his hand with all his hopes and dreams.

And when he gets to the Pride table, he goes silent, voice stutter-stopping as soon as he sees Louis. Louis, in a stupid-large tank, arm-holes wide to showcase a litany of tattoos and gold skin. Louis, in a beanie and glasses and fucking skinny jeans. _Louis._

So Harry’s throat goes parch-dry for a few moments as he watches Louis help other students, as he passes them pens and a clipboard. He watches Louis until Louis looks up and spies him.

He breaks into a huge grin, and Harry’s mouth goes even drier.

“You came! Here, sign this one, it’s mine. I’m trying to beat Stan for sign-ups, you can help!”

Harry nods dumbly, stumbling forward on locked legs. “You—have, um, have you had good turnout?”

“Yeah, not bad. And like we’ll see if people actually come to meetings or whatever, but the sign-up sheet is better this year than last year, so.”

“Are—what year are you?”

“Second.” Louis hands Harry a pen, and Harry swears he clocks Louis giving him an up-and-down. Score.

“Gonna show me the ropes, then?”

“Ropes?” Louis blanks him, his face going entire slack. “What?”

“The—the lay of the land?” Harry tries, face scrunching.

Louis blinks at least seven times before responding. “Oh! Oh, yes, Harry, yes. I’ll do that. Sure. Anything for you.”

“Cheers. Thanks, Lou.” He realizes belatedly that other students are crowding around him, so he waves good-bye to Louis and departs, but his mind just keeps spinning the word _rope_ over and over again. So, maybe he has a plan.

:::

In line for lunch a day later, Harry shyly asks Louis about the other societies he’s in, about what he’s studying. Fittingly, he’s studying Theatre and Communications, is considering either being an actor or a drama teacher. Harry listens, rapt, as Louis explains that he wants to put on a genderbent production of The Breakfast Club, that he himself wants to play a basketcase because it just “feels right.”

“You’ll make a beautiful Allison,” Harry says, smiling hard so his dimples show.

“John Hughes always did want to let people perform it as a play,” Louis segues, shrugging as he shoves his hands into his pockets. He’s wearing a Vans t-shirt and loose-fitting joggers that narrow at his ankles, and Harry thinks he looks pocket-sized. Harry wants to package him up and take him home. “Like, high-schoolers?”

Harry hums, nodding. “Are you gonna, like. Americanize it?”

“Nah, we’re thinking of adapting it wholesale, setting it at some country kind of college, sorta like—what, Skins? But not that tone. I dunno. It’s hard to explain.”

“It’s—I like it. The genderbent thing is interesting, right, but—”

“But I don’t want it to overshadow everything else, you know? The content itself is already great, so giving the actors the time to just work with that, the space to explore what it might mean if they were—different, if their social influences weren’t what they were in the source material, if we pieced apart what gender really means and how it impacts them. How it plays into a pretty important film, as far as society in concerned.”

Harry bites at his bottom lip, considering this. “That—that sounds amazing. Confusing, but amazing.”

Louis shrugs. “Gender’s kind of that, though, innit? Confusing and amazing. And kinda stupid.”

They both laugh at that. “Tell me when to buy tickets, please. I’ll buy ‘em out.”

Louis raises a brow. “Not gonna audition?”

Harry shudders. “I’m not even remotely an actor. Maybe, maybe a writer, but, like—never an actor. Just a fan. Audience member, really. Ultimate fan.”

“Yeah?” Louis tips his chin up, the light catching on his cheekbones. “Reckon you’ll have to bring me flowers, in that case.”

“Because you’re the star?”

“Always.”

:::

Saturday finds Harry grinding on a fit-enough fresher at the Belt, one of the few and also stupider clubs in town. The dancefloor lights up, is the thing, and that makes Harry laugh harder than it should. He grinds forward again, rocking his hips into someone whose name he _thinks_ might be Jeff.

Niall’s latched onto a group of blondes, so he seems all right enough, fitting in as best he knows how. And, like, Louis’ not there, but Jeff is, or maybe his name is Geoff, but either way they’re dancing until they’re not, and Jeff’s hands are on his hips until they’re not, and Harry is having fun until he’s not.

Because the music is pounding into him, hears _when you’re touching me I feel sparks_ but he doesn’t, really, just feels sluggish and drunk.

And also because eventually Leigh-Anne and Jade are lugging Niall between them with someone else at his back, and the bouncer is yelling but everyone else is laughing, except Harry. Harry feels like he’s going to pitch over right where he stands, so he just follows his friends home.

:::

Harry wakes up with a twitch, his mouth tasting like blood and copper. He stumbles to the sink across from his bed and flips the faucet on, dunking his head immediately under the stream of water. _Hungover_ doesn’t begin to describe his current state; it doesn’t begin to describe anything. He is absolutely and definitely dying.

He lurches into the corridor, trying to stumble inconspicuously into the toilets, only to find a wide-eyed Louis looking at him from his own doorway.

“Oh, mate. You look positively green.”

“Tequila,” Harry agrees, gagging gently in his throat. “Pardon.” He tips sideways into the loos, barely shutting the door behind himself before retching into the toilet. His wet fringe flops onto his forehead as his stomach curls angrily and he sinks to his knees. His breath goes shallow as he heaves up liquid and bile.

Eventually, he washes out his mouth and leaves the toilets, only to be confronted by Louis, because of course.

Except he has a look of concern on his face, so Harry tries not to actually gag onto Louis’ feet. “All right mate?”

“Uh. Bit hungover.”

“Figured that one out, love. C’mere, got a trick to help you out.” He waves Harry next door, into his own room—which, Harry’s too dumb not to follow in his weakened state. He rummages in the cabinet above his sink, flicking out tablets and an oversized cup. Harry sighs and shuts his eyes, listening to Louis’ ministrations with weak discomfort.

Then Louis crowds into his space, handing him the glass and two flat tablets. “Antacids and hair of the dog. Trust me.”

Harry sighs. “You haven’t a trustworthy face, all in all.”

Louis gives him a wicked grin. “And yet.”

“And yet?”

“And yet, you’re going to listen to me in the end.”

And Harry does. He tips back the antacid and chugs down the Bloody Mary, only gagging twice before he finishes it. Then Louis shoves him onto his own unmade bed, telling him an _aggressive cuddle_ is the surest cure for anything.

Harry’s heart hurts, but he thinks maybe Louis might be right.

:::

 

Harry wakes up in Louis’ bed around two hours later, dazed and cotton-tongued. But he feels better, and it’s not—it’s not just because his face is pillowed onto Louis’ chest. It’s not.

He’s probably just lucky he didn’t drool onto Louis’ sleep top.

He’s taken to keeping a refillable water bottle with him at nearly all times just because he’s so frequently dehydrated. Freshers’ Week has been his undoing. Gemma warned him, she really did, but he never does too well with warnings. So he’s thirsty and a bit queasy more often than not but none of it really matters, nothing really matters, nothing past the shiny of it all. It’s new and he’s here and it’s _real._

 _The days are long but the years are short_ —his mother’s favoured adage sits with him now, now that he’s in one place for the foreseeable future, that time passes both too quickly and not at all.

So he lugs around a refillable metal jug (it’s covered in holographic flamingoes) and tempers his hangovers the best he knows how. Because half the fun of uni is doing stupid shit. Or so he’s been told—and mostly he’s been told by Niall.

Except right now he feels the best he’s ever felt, outside of the dry mouth. The concoction from Louis seems to have done the trick, although it may just be Louis himself. Louis, who’s currently got one arm wrapped around Harry’s midsection, whose face is currently gentle-slack and gorgeous like starshine. Harry wants to wake up like this for the rest of his life, probably, or at least for the rest of the week, maybe minus the hangover.

He convinces himself that he’s trying not to wake Louis up, says internally that _not moving_ is the best option, and he sighs quietly before snuggling back into the warmth of Louis’ chest.

:::

Harry is sitting on the counter in one of the kitchens on his floor—the tinier of the two, waiting for his tea—when a girl bustles in unceremoniously. She casts her eyes about wildly, looking trapped.

“This isn’t the toilets.”

“No?”

She lurches towards the bin as Harry vaults off the counter. In the back of his head he clocks the fact that it’s four p.m. but he’s immediately gathering up the girl’s hair and rubbing the small of her back. “Get it out. You’ll feel better once you do.” She retches for a few moments before taking a shuddering breath. “Keep breathing. In about five minutes, you’ll be fine.” He moves away to fill a mug with drinking water as she spits into the bin. “Here you go, love.”

“Good first impression, ”she croaks, voice scratchy with a laugh.

“I’ve made worse.” He hands her the water and moves away to finish making his tea.

“Apparently there’s a weekend in November where they just lay down plastic sheeting in front hall cuz everything’s a completely lecherous disgusting mess.” She stutters out another small laugh.

“Tradition, yeah. So still drunk, or already drunk?”

“Day drunk. I don’t recommend the Labyrinth drinking game.”

“Let me guess. Bulge shots of Bowie?”

“And Sarah being whiney. Yeah.”

“It’s a miracle you’re still alive.”

“You’ve seen the movie then?”

“It’s _Bowie._ Pretty much my sexual awakening, love.”

This brings out a bright, tinkling laugh from her. “You’ve got a bit of a Jagger swagger, yourself.”

“You think?”

“Sure. I’m Cher, by the way.”

“Harry.”

“Heartbreaker Harry.”

He lets his tea brew as Cher drinks another mug of water. Then Cher drags Harry to her group of friends, insisting that they won’t mind if he joins. She upends a small bottle of rum into his tea with a private smile, bumping his shoulder with hers.

It devolves, as these things always do, until Harry is neck-deep in a crowd of mostly-girls who are plaiting his hair. Someone drunkenly suggests a conga-line of hair-braiding, which only ends when everyone’s hair is more knots than actual braids. They pass out in a pile on the floor in the lounge, a cuddle-puddle if Harry’s ever seen one.

:::

The next mid-morning, Louis corrals a group of around twenty people from their hall, demanding that everyone fool about on the beach while the sun is high. Harry’s not one for football, so he kicks his shoes off and sits down on to the sand, pushing his hair off his forehead with a pair of sunglasses before shoving another pair on his nose to cover his eyes. And _maybe_ he’s stretching out conspicuously to ensure Louis the best chance of noticing him. His plan frequently gets foiled by the sand kicked in his face by Niall and the fact that Cher and Jade dump a bucket of saltwater on him.

“Christ, when did you two team up?” Harry gasps, shuddering at the shocking chill.

“We’re recruiting every cool chick to our girl band,” Jade says like it’s the best explanation. Cher does a wild cartwheel before flopping down next to Harry’s soggy self.

“Hey, Jagger.”

“”Chezzababy,” he replies, throwing off his sunglasses to glare at her.

“Aw, don’t be mad, kitten,” she murmurs, throwing a glace at their ragtag group.

“And why not?”

“Because, Mick, I’m gonna help you get your Bowie.” She leers in Louis’ direction and that is—

“Is it that obvious?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Fuck.”

“Just give me a mention in the liner notes.” Cher chucks off her tanktop and turns over so the mild Scottish sun can tan her back. Harry sighs.

They doze and Harry lazily listens to the commotion around him. He’s knocked out of it when someone bumps into his legs.

“Louis?” He squints sleepily, lips falling into a smile. “Hey.”

“Hey, you.” Louis drops down beside him, dislodging sand. “Can I tell you a secret?”

Harry bites at his bottom lip for a moment. “Anything.”

Louis hums, turning his face to look at Harry a little more fully. Harry feels Cher lurch to her feet, hears her mutter, “Um, hey, look, it’s Luke, how about that,” and she’s gone.

So it’s just them.

“What’s your secret, then?”

“I brought sweets!” Louis says in a conspiratorial whisper, turning to curl into Harry’s side. “You want some?”

 _“Yes.”_ Harry doesn’t care if it’s Pick’n’Mix or Belgian chocolate, he’ll take whatever Louis gives him. And all Louis digs from his pocket is some Haribo, and really? Harry is incandescent. “Thanks, Lou.”

“Course, Curly.”

:::

Classes start but Harry doesn’t, because he’s already hit the ground running. Things are half-real at best, and literature is thrown at him like Molotov cocktails—bursting in his face and burning to his core. Camus and Bronte (all of the Brontes) and Keller and Bishop—all of them get shoved into Harry’s brain.

One Thursday, Louis drags him by the hand into his room, even though Harry has an armful of books. “C’mon, kid,” Louis wheedles, lips pouting.

“Fine, fine.” He follows along docilely. For the first time, clear-minded, he’s able to examine Louis’ room. It’s covered in photos, family and friends and celebrities alike. The radiator is covered in jeans and a few pair of pants. “Like your room!”

“Lucked out with a single,” Louis says with a smile. “At least until next semester when a roommate probably shows up.” He shrugs, like maybe he doesn’t actually care, like maybe he doesn’t like the solitude. Harry makes note.

“You think someone dropped out this term or what?”

“Moved to a different rez hall, actually.” Louis shrugs. He drops onto—purportedly his—bed, the duvet cover a riot of green and blue. “Come on, kid, let’s watch a film!”

Harry bites his bottom lip and sniffs. “Bet you can’t guess my favourite.”

“Ten quid?”

“Five.”

“Sure.” Louis rolls his eyes. “Hm. Romantic to a fault, silly and precious, kind of remarkable. Um. Love Actually?”

Harry blinks six times. “Holy shit.”

Louis grins at him, wolfish and wild. “Five quid, then.”

Harry sighs, flopping his legs onto the duvet of the unoccupied bed. “Like you know me so well.” He tips his head back only to spy—a collection of plugs, dildos, and other _sex toys_ beneath Louis’ bed, stuck into a small bin with an open lip. His breath catches somewhere in his sinuses.

“Pretty hair, Curly,” Louis says, apropos of him flopping around. “And yeah, I do.” They both sigh heavily. “So. Romance, comedy, or both?”

“Both!”

Harry tackles Louis after a moment, makes them collapse onto Louis’ bed in a tangle, both of them laughing loudly. They watch _Bridget Jones_ until Harry falls asleep, and then everything is lost to the ether.

:::

Harry eventually buys all the remaining books for his courses, having been told he should wait until he actually gets the damn syllabi because professors are indecisive and fickle. Or something. Some of the books are water-logged and dubious-looking paperbacks, necessarily used, and he also buys one pristine copy of _Crush_ because every gay boy lit freak realistically needs three copies of it to his name. He also stops by Tesco for chocolate and shitty wine, mostly to curb his creeping homesickness, but also to round out the end of his first week of classes. Because why not. He shares it with everyone who gives him sad eyes (i.e., Niall) over dinner before spending the evening in their hall’s tiny side garden, carding his fingers through the grass.

Tipsy-tired, he clings to Niall’s back like a limpet and forces him to carry them both to bed.

:::

Harry’s second Monday class goes as smoothly as he hoped. He again sits not too close and not too far from the professor, who’s old enough and beige enough not to be sexually distracting. He seems to spit on one of the students seated in front, so Harry reckons he’s made an okay choice.

That afternoon remains mild, if cloudy, so Harry detours on the way back from class, bag hanging easily from his shoulder—still neat, after all, since it’s but his very sixth day. A small part of himself can openly admit he chose this uni because it’s one of the most historically beautiful, or at least in his aesthetic, places in the U.K. Everything is grey stonework and cobbled low walls, dark metal gates and the cold North Sea. It’s fucking bleak, is what it is, and the shameless romantic in Harry is sated just thinking of it all.

So he dallies through the little graveyard, snapping a few photos on his phone, instantly posting them, sans filter for once. He meanders back to halls slowly, one earbud in and the other dangling down inside the collar of his shirt.

He finds a group gathered in front hall, a small knot clustered around two low tables. “Curly!” Louis beckons without looking up from the cards clutched in his hand. “Come play shithead with us.”

“I don’t know how to play that,” Harry mumbles, loping over to sit at Louis’ feet.

“Know that, eh. We’ll teach you.” Louis flicks Harry’s ear and pulls at a lock of his hair. “Sproingy!”

Harry closes his eyes, lashes fluttering against his cheeks as Louis plays with his hair. He tries to listen to the rules, he really does, but Louis’ purposeful fingers yanking gently at his curls—the sensation is heavenly. Louis is a god.

Harry jumps when Louis bends down to whisper, “Christ, are you _purring?”_

“What? No,” Harry rushes out, shrugging. But he moves closer into Louis’ hand, which momentarily stopped moving. “You can’t prove anything.”

“I see right through you, babe.”  
:::

Harry watches in fascination as Louis throws his head back in a loud guffaw. They’re all set up in a pub, barely this side of a cliché, dark wood and cracked leather seats and withered-faced townies. Which is probably all a testament to it being a decent-enough pub. Their whole group is probably four pints deep, Asami flicking Jade’s cheek and laughing, Luke necking his drink with gusto. And Louis is—laughing at someone Harry’s never seen before, an athletic looking bloke with close-cropped hair and a pout Harry could fall for. He has Louis’ attention, this _Liam_ something.

And Harry is both fascinated and put-out, until he finally listens in and realizes they’re laughing at an idiotic-looking stuffed deer’s head that is currently mounted on the wall. It’s a bit goggle-eyed and its fur is patchy. Harry squints at the plaque beneath its wonky face, and the metal reads _Mortimer._

“Dare someone to nick it,” Louis whispers (attempts to whisper?) to the entire table, face smug and lord-of-the-manor. He even folds his arms across his chest.

“Why not you?” Harry asks in a carrying tone before biting at his lip. He’s not above playing this game, not at all, and he’s a deceptively fierce competitor. Or something. His tongue feels a bit slow in his mouth but his smile is slow and easy. He’s _fine._

“Really, Rapunzel? You’re going to test me like that?” Louis smirks.

“Oh yeah.”

The blur and glow of Harry’s buzz obscures a bit of what happens next, although he does know that Louis’ convinced Asami to pretend to be breaking up with someone loudly over her mobile, has got Niall to tickle Liam until he fell on the floor, asked Jade to distract the bartenders (two of whom were women) and at some point Louis himself feigned pregnancy. Or kidney stones.

And then they’re running back to halls, whooping like idiots, high on each other and life itself.

:::

Harry wakes up mostly in Louis’ bed, both his legs hanging out from under the duvet with his head buried in Louis’ neck. He flails, falling fully onto the floor, successfully waking them both up.

“Haz?” Louis hangs his head off the mattress, bleary-eyed.

“Ow.”

“I feel dead.”

“I _am_ dead.” Harry collapses onto his back and starfishes out before cracking an eye open. “I’m naked.”

“You are.”

“How’d that happen?”

“Reckon you stripped down and complained about being _so fucking hot, really,_ if I remember. It’s a bit fuzzy though.”

“Shit.”

“Hey, if it makes you feel better, I definitely chucked up in the sink in the middle of the night.”

“It doesn’t.”

Louis groans. “I’m _dying.”_

“I’m _naked.”_

“Shut up, like you’re not nude 70% of the time anyway.”

“Heyyyy.” Harry focuses heavily on breathing through his nose, keeping his gag reflex down. Luckily, he’s had practice with his gag reflex. He snorts.

“Huh?”

“Trying not to puke.”

“Water?” Louis asks, voice almost light.

“Kill me.”

“You’re too pretty.”

“I’d kiss you if you hadn’t just told me you puked recently.”

“Fuck, don’t remind me. Go to sleep.”

Harry sighs heavily and lurches back into Louis’ bed.

:::

They wake up marginally more human, and Harry doesn’t actively want to slit his wrists. He winces even with his eyes closed, at his own negative self-talk, his own cognitive distortions. Because no fucking way is _now_ the time for the grey to settle back in. This is just a hangover. Not a death-wish. He took his meds yesterday and he’s _fine._ Except hungover. He cuddles into Louis’ chest for the second time, feeling a bit soft it not yet invigorated. They lie together for a good forty-five minutes until Louis wiggles awake, twitching away from Harry. “I’m sweaty.”

“You’re hungover,” Harry replies.

“So’s you.”

“Yeah.”

“Better though?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

“Did we steal a goddamn deer last night?”

_“Fuck.”_

:::

Rather than face the consequences of their idiocy, both Louis and Harry gather their books and hungover selves and troop to the library. Harry refused to neaten up and just shoved a grey beanie on his head and wore Louis’ narrow-legged trackies and a hoodie. He’s a sexual tornado, really, he is. A sexual tornado with night-sweat and a queasy stomach from too much booze.

Louis looks no better, except of course he does, because he’s beautiful, while Harry feels like a split-apart disaster. Both he and Louis lug their books and very large water bottles to the library, which Harry has yet to step foot into.

On the way they pass a busker bag-piping, which makes Harry dig into his bag for a quid. 

“Really, Haz? She’s just sitting there.”

Harry shrugs. “It’s, like, kind of a novelty? Like, people really play bagpipes? It’s not a myth? There’s a lot of practicing she must have done, right? Cuz that’s hard to learn.”

“You do talk shit, H. Much like bagpipes. They’re stupid.”

“What? They’re cultural, it’s cool! They were tartan!”

“Please shut your very large, if lovely, gob. You’re making my hangover worse.”

Harry pouts but stays quiet until they get to the library. “This— _this_ is the absolute ugliest building I have ever seen.”

Louis wrinkles his nose in distaste. “Yeah. The aesthetic leaves a lot to be desired. Not really the kind of place where anyone wants to sneak off into the stacks to get naughty.”

Harry hums, cheeks colouring up a bit at the thought. “Think they do that on purpose?” he asks, scanning his eyes over the squat, angular building. It looks to be made of pebbles moulded together with sticky-tack, and the windows are frosted glass.

 

“That might be over-estimating their thought process. Think they just needed something not shored up completely by asbestos.”

_“Seriously?”_

Louis shrugs. “The blackbox definitely had some. Found that out last year during the remodel.”

“So this place is literally going to be the death of me.”

“If you’re lucky. Yeah.”

:::

Harry doesn’t get much work done, which he’s fairly okay with because he doesn’t have a lot to do so early in the year. Mostly he nurses his hangover and scans through one of the only copies of _Endgame_ he managed to find in the whole library.

“Beckett?” Louis says eventually, looking up from his own stack of books. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for a fan.”

“Of _Endgame,_ sure. I love a good extended metaphor. Hate _Godot_ though. Probably makes me a bad lit student.”

“Nah. I mean, it depends. Read as a work of literature, it does feel futile. Which is the point, I know,” he rushes out when Harry moves to interrupt him. “But staged as a play? It’s rather genius, a bit, and what actor doesn’t want to show off practically uninterrupted for an hour or so?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Of course it is. So’s life, innit?”

“I just don’t— _get_ absurdism or whatever.”

Louis snorts. “Nothing to get.”

The simplicity behind that sentiment and the confidence with which he says it shuts Harry up momentarily. But then he ducks forward to ruffle-slash-fix his fringe and changes the topic. “Lucky our subjects overlap a bit, eh?”

“How’d you mean?”

“I just. We can revise together. Or I can run lines with you. I’m thinking of taking a course on British and Irish drama next term, thus the—”

“Thus the Beckett.” Louis gives him a soft smile. “Sure, Curly. But I warn you, I’m a bit of a diva.”

“I can handle it. I’m a very stern taskmaster. I can keep you on track.” Harry gives him a gamey smile.

Louis huffs out a breath. “Get back to Beckett, you dirty flirt.”

Harry dials his smile back to half-power, which is still five-hundred watts. “That obvious?”

“Yeah. Absolutely.”

Harry shrugs and dives back into his _Endgame._

:::

Later that week Louis gets _“officially rebuked,”_ (verbally reprimanded) for stealing the taxidermied deer head, something the entire hall finds hilarious. He has to return the animal and pay recompense by putting in two nights’ work bar-backing for no wage.

“I get to keep the tips, though,” he says with a weary sigh after coming into front hall on Friday night.

“Barbacks get tips?” Niall asks, flicking two playing cards directly into Harry’s hair.

“They do when they flirt shamelessly with the local blue-hairs, yes.”

“Hey, not all old ladies have blue hair,” Jade calls from across the hall, where she’s trying to teach Asami to do a headstand. “And for some of us it’s a deliberate fashion choice.”

“Sorry to have offended. Local geriatrics, then.” Louis plops down at the table and picks up cards so he can join Niall in tossing them at Harry. “Hm. That might be a good one, actually. _If we shadows have offended...”_

“A good one what?” Harry asks, trying to stay still and not dislodge any cards.

“Monologue for try-outs. First drama production is _The Importance of Being Earnest._ Puck’s fairly classic. I don’t want to pull out anything too weird yet.”

“Weird? How weird?” Niall asks before pursing his lips and narrowing his eyes at Harry’s head.

“Cannibalism weird. Torture and suicide weird.”

Harry shudders before he can stop himself. He dislodges a card and offers a mumbled apology. “I dunno if I’ll come to any of those kinds of weird. Hits a bit too close, for me.”

Niall gasps exaggeratedly. _“You’re_ one of the survivors from the Andes plane crash who ate his friends to survive?!”

Harry snorts and closes his eyes. “Very funny.”

“It’s my way. But seriously.” Niall runs his fingers through Harry’s hair, removing all the cards. Harry opens his eyes to see both Niall and Louis looking at him unsmilingly.

“It’s not a big deal anymore. I just get triggered by, like, suicide. Sometimes. Not as much any more, it’s loads better. But I don’t like to go there to readily, you know.”

“Noted.” Niall bops Harry on the nose and yanks at a lock of his fringe, making Harry shiver again.

“I am fine though.” Colour rises in his cheeks.

“I believe you,” Louis murmurs, shuffling the cards he has left in his hand.

“Good. Because it’s true.”

The rest of his planned _no really I’m great_ speech dies unspoken as Niall and Louis rugby-tackle him onto the carpet.

:::

It doesn’t take Harry much convincing from Niall to try out for the golf team. It takes a _bit_ because they _are_ at an intimidatingly historical golf landmark, but Niall says that’s in their favour. “It’s impressive to even try out here, Haz, seriously. My da nearly shat himself when I mentioned it.”

“What if I’m just, like, not that good?”

“Doesn’t matter, then it’ll be a laugh and we’ll go get a pint. But at least you’ll have tried.”

“Suppose so.”

“Definitely so.”

They dress immaculately, and Niall doesn’t even laugh at Harry’s choice of a lilac polo. “It’s festive,” Niall agrees, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “A fine choice.” He’s chosen a muted hunter green, claiming it brings out the specks of grey in his eyes. Harry lets him have that without comment.

Harry really likes golf, but has only ever considered himself an enthusiastic amateur. He’s never tried out or a team or a league, just played a few holes with his grandfather when the mood struck. Yet here he is, on the oldest golf course in the world, about to seek permission to _play it._ It’ll be a wonder if _he_ doesn’t shit himself, either.

 

He and Niall go out for points and nachos afterwards—“It’s celebratory until we hear back, all right? We don’t know anything concrete yet. Chin up,” Niall reasons.

“That’s true.” Harry raises his pint. “Hey, how do you say _cheers_ in Scottish Gaelic?”

Niall clinks his glass against Harry’s. “Dunno. I only know Irish Gaelic. And God forbid I tell anyone they’re basically the same. Last time I tried I nearly got my ear torn off by a second-year I was trying to pill.”

“Huh. Well, cheers then.”

“To your health,” Niall agrees, necking one-third of his beer in one go. “Strange sort of place, huh? Wonder what exactly we’ve gotten ourselves into.”

:::

They both make the team, although they’re essentially reserves, since they’re so new and basically untested. At the news, they jump into one another’s arms and promptly fall over into a painful heap.

They celebrate _again,_ this time with a group of friends at the Union. Something called _Snakebite_ is on special, so everybody orders one except Niall, who is loyal to his pints of lager. “It’s just my way. Anything too sweet and I’ll probably break a bottle over someone’s had and then punch your nan.”

Harry boggles at this.

Niall shrugs. “Deep stores of Irish anger that get unlocked by sugar or VKD.”

“Inexplicable.”

“I’m a mystery even to myself.” Niall then slings an easy arm around Liam’s shoulders, pulling him towards the billiards tables. Harry tunes into the rest of the people at their table, where some kind of cutthroat battle is going on. Everyone is throwing pennies and two-p coins at one another and Harry immediately claps a hand over his glass. Stan and Louis seamlessly team up to take down a bloke Harry has only seen once or twice, someone named Zayn.

He has his arms crossed and an unimpressed look on his face—his stupidly beautiful face, Harry realizes, as he pans his way up and down Zayn’s body. The half-lit half-shadowed corner of the Union is doing him unnecessary favours, playing up the contours of his sharp jaw and cut-glass cheekbones, cast his long-lashed eyes into smoky darkness.

A penny hits Harry in the forehead and he nearly falls off his chair. “Stop ogling Zayn,” Louis snaps, eyes shuttered to everything but anger.

“I wasn’t _ogling_ him.”

“Team up with me, Stan’s shit and I need reinforcements.” His tone is still waspish but his face softens markedly, specially when Harry’s toss makes it into Zayn’s glass and he has to down his drink.

 

The night turns ridiculous.

Out of the corner of his eye (and the corner of his brain), Harry thinks Louis circles him extra-close, keeps a careful watch on him, but it may be wishful thinking. They slip tequila shots into the other’s hands, skirting into and out of each other’s open space all night. All of the hair on Harry’s body feels staticky and his skin feels raw, even with the deadening alcohol in his system.

They dance for hours, skin all sweat-slick and heated, people peeling away periodically to get fresh air and smoke or buy a sloppy kabob. Harry gets forcibly dragged out of the last club by Liam, Niall, and Louis, his limbs drunk-loose and fumbly. Niall climbs onto a bus shelter and does a barrel-roll back onto the ground, jostling into Liam with a loud laugh. Louis pulls Harry into a one-armed hug, peppering his cheek with wet kisses.

Harry sighs. “I need water.”

“You need _chips,_ not water!” Louis declares.

“Maybe both,” Harry slurs, curling into Louis’ body.

“I’ve got you, love. You’re alright.” Louis cards one hand through Harry’s sweaty hair, and that’s the last thing he remembers of the night.

:::

Harry’s coursework picks up week by week, submerging him in literature and essays, dog-earing his pages and rereading _everything_ at least twice. He hunkers down in what is still the _ugliest_ library he has ever seen, keeping his head down, marginally, as he falls into a routine.

When he’s not revising or writing, he’s boning up on golf with Niall, becoming a support system of two. Niall insists they’re improving and insists on weekly nachos and pints together.

Much as Harry has grown to love Niall, he decides he needs to diversify his friend group. Alexa tells him as much at the end of each of their Skype calls, noting that he has a tendency to lock-down and domesticate way too fast, even platonically.

“He’s a good friend,” Harry insisted once, voice quiet.

“And he’ll still be there when you meet other people. Spread that ugly mug of yours around town a bit, yeah? Maybe even get laid.”

Harry snorted. “You’re one to talk. Aren’t you wifey’d up, eh?”

“Not talking about me right now, okay? Just think about it.”

 

So it’s mainly because of Alexa that Harry is standing in front of Louis’ door, rocking back and forth from foot to foot, chewing on his bottom lip. Louis yanks his door open and grins brightly at him. “Hazza, pleasant surprise.”

“I’m driving myself nuts over this comparative analysis essay. Um. Was hoping for a change of scenery?”

“You’re in luck. My scene is very different from the bedroom right next door to it, complete with identical furniture and carpeting.” He slides out of the doorway easily and lets Harry inside. “Admit it, champ, you just missed me. It’s okay, you can tell the truth here.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Sure, whatever. No, but like—I hear you going over lines and thought I could help.” The excuse sounds lame in his own ears, even while it remains true.

“Sorry, am I being too loud?” Louis smirks at him, hard and fast, shutting the door behind them.

“I mean—your voice does carry, but I really could help. I’m tearing out my hair over this essay, Lou, I can’t stand it,” he stammers, cheeks pinking up.

Louis exhales sharply. “Not your gorgeous locks! Can’t have that at all.” He ruffles Harry’s fringe and gives him a softer, dopier smile.

“So—Earnest?” Harry asks, plopping onto Louis’ desk chair, which is admittedly identical to his own.

“At your service.” Louis tips an imaginary cap in Harry’s direction and throws him a battered script. “Let’s get to work, Curly.”

Over the next two hours, Harry only wants to pull his hair out once, and Louis effectively distracts him wit ha story about his little brother eating a whole jar of Marmite and puking in his sister’s face. Harry laughs so hard he sees stars.

:::

Their Northern climate rapidly descends into the harsher child of autumn, and Harry invests in more scarves. He also invests in headphones for the times Louis reads his lines just _way_ too fucking loud. His route to the library is, at this point, very well-worn and he can probably walk there with his eyes covered by his downy new scarves. As it is he just watches his feet travel the same path.

One Friday in early October he slouches into front hall and collapses onto the radiator, dropping his heavy bag at his feet. Niall raises an eyebrow at him but says nothing. Louis rolls his eyes and pokes Harry’s cheek. “You okay there, babycakes?” Leigh-Anne ignores him and Asami gives him a sympathetic pout before handing him some chocolate.

“No. I was lied to.”

“Oh here we go,” Niall mutters, stealing the chocolate before Harry can eat it.

“About?” Louis asks sunnily, moving to sit bedside Harry on the radiator.

“Don’t indulge him,” Niall warns him.

Leigh-Anne nods. “It’s the uni speech again. Clockwork.”

“Who lied to you?”

“Films! My mum! The admissions people! Harry Potter!”

“Hogwarts isn’t so much a uni as it is a boarding school, H,” Asami points out, voice patient and slow.

“Not my point! Movie montages always make academia look way more romantic and interesting than it is. There’s no beautiful library with wide majestic corridors, line with books, sunlight dappling through the leaded windows. It’s got no tweed and pipe tobacco. It’s just _me,_ hunched over my laptop in trackies and a hoodie, hair in a topknot, writing about divorce and heartbreak. It’s fucking _bleak.”_

“You’re really stuck on how ugly the library is,” Louis murmurs, bumping his shoulder into Harry’s.

“You would be too if you had to spend 80% of your waking hours there!”

Louis sighs and pulls Harry’s hair out of its bun, running his fingers through it. “Oh you beautiful idiot. If the library is harshing your mellow, find another place to work.”

“Academia is _stupid._ I feel betrayed.” Harry sighs heavily and leans into Louis’ hand.

“Reckon you need a night off. Starting with Pick’n’Mix.”

“Why.”

“We’re going on an excursion.”

 

An hour later, after which Niall refuses to be browbeaten into participating and Leigh-Anne and Asami laugh in Louis’ face, Louis and Harry clutch bags of sweets and bottled sodas. Harry momentarily thinks they would be holding hands if they were in a film, but instead it’s life. They walk toward the beach and Harry heeds Louis’ very concerned warning about watching his footing. They clamber along a low seawall and climb onto a huge boulder, the sea lapping gently around them. Louis spreads out a tartan blanket for them to sit on.

“I do this when things get too loud.”

“Eat candy on a boulder?”

“Sit on old Rocky, here, yes.”

“I like it.” He opens up his bag of sweets and fishes out a gummy octopus, ripping its legs off violently.

“So, H. Tell me your hopes and dreams.” Louis drops onto his back and stares up into the sky.

“Write. I like to write.”

“And what do you like to write, pray tell?”

“Mostly really trite short stories about man’s search for meaning in the senseless voice we call the universe.”

Louis hums softly. “Sounds like a real page-turner. Shame you’re so down on yourself lately, I’d bet on you topping the best-seller list.” His voice rings with gentle humour, and something hot coils up in Harry’s chest.

“I’m not—I’m not down on _myself,_ just hit—a wall.”

“It happens to everyone, honestly. Winters here are pretty rough. Lots of darkness and cold, lots of revising. Stress. Being away from home for the first time for this long gets tiresome.” Louis shrugs a bit. “It grates on you. Makes the world feel too loud, too close. Sometimes you just need to exhale into the night, you know?”

“Clever clogs, you are,” Harry mutters, his eyes filling up with tears ever so slightly. “Thank you.”

“This place fucks with your head enough. We need to look out for our own.” He pats the blanket, willing Harry to lie down beside him. “Do you write plays and the like, then, too?”

“Yeah.”

“We do student exhibitions, all December? Four mini-productions, all student-led. A bit after Reading Week. You interested?”

His cheeks pink-up at this, although the darkness of the evening covers the evidence. “Really?”

“Yeah, Haz. _The play’s the thing,_ after all. Hamlet.”

“The man, the myth, the legend,” Harry replies, snorting lightly. “Well, Mr. Earnest. Are you going to act in these shows, then?”

Louis puffs his chest out a bit. “I’m directing, too. At least one of them. I’m expanding my repertoire, a bit.”

“That’s awesome.” He curls up against Louis more, and they fall into silence as they watch the night sky.

:::

Weeks pass and Harry adjusts, knowing that Louis is just one room away and willing to listen to him whinge. So he gives himself a break, focuses a little on loosening the reins a bit, listens when Niall suggests they grab a pint and relax periodically. He goes to the Pride Soc meetings and hangs out with Jade and Cher a bit more. Cher is a physics student and proclaims that this means she deserves to party extra hard whenever she gets the chance.

She invites Harry to visit some of her family and friends just outside of Glasgow for a weekend. They catch the bus midday Friday and nurse their hangovers on the ride, both staring out the windows. 

“You’d think I’d be used to rain by now, you know, but somehow it still—settles somewhere funny in my bones,” she muses before long. “Not very good at being English.”

“Guess that’s why we both fucked off to Scotland?”

“Maybe so.” She sighs and drops her head onto Harry’s shoulder.

:::

They go to Cher’s aunt’s house for the most family-style meal Harry has had in awhile. Her two young cousins chatter back and for the so much that Cher and Harry barely need to speak at all, and—it’s kind of just what Harry didn’t realize he needed. The kitchen is suffused with middling gold light, he has a huge helping of spag bol and a glass of red wine—and for some reason, Cher invited _him_ along for the trip.

Harry doesn’t know what to make of it but he’s glad enough to be along for the time being. _Anything not involving ten-page essays and slogging through arduous reading,_ he tells himself, although most of him was just happy to be invited along, to be thought of at all.

After dinner, they put their bags in the guest room and Cher immediately upends hers, sifting through clothes and four pairs of high-top trainers.

“You’re not really like any other girl I’ve ever met.”

She raises an incredulous brow at him. “Look, I know you’re a dude into dudes, but the way to compliment a girl isn’t to compare her to other girls, goob.”

“I didn’t mean—not in a bad way, just an observation!”

“I’m like plenty of other girls, H. Just a bit shorter, in all likelihood.”

“You have a lot of sneakers. That’s what I meant.” He’s resolutely not sulking.

“Yeah, because that shit is comfortable.” She laughs. “And I don’t mean to say we’re not special or whatever, we are, but we’re not all so different from one another, mostly.” Harry bites his bottom lip and breaks eye contact with her. “It’s too alienating always feeling alone,” she adds.

Harry shrugs. “But I do, though, most of the time. Just stomp along and keep my head down, lately.” He leans back against the wall. “Living is exhausting.”

“Hey.” Cher cups one tiny hand around the back of his neck. “Do what you love. Don’t love it? Fucking change it. Switch courses, break up, make up, go to karaoke, go to therapy. But you’re never really stuck. Not really.”

“Fucking A, Chezza.”

“I know. I’m a sage. Now help me pick a skirt and let’s go get fucked up.”

:::

They meet up with another of Cher’s cousins and some of her friends from college at a dingy pub with decent, cheap draughts. Four drinks in and all six of them are playing a bastardized game of billiards, where Cher’s stuck her hands behind her back and Harry’s pretending to be her arms, controlling their pool cue. It’s utterly pointless and somehow still a laugh-riot.

Cher keeps dropping her head back onto Harry’s shoulder, which breaks his concentration, and the bartender keeps giving them exasperated but slightly fond looks since there are technically three of them at one table, but Harry keeps barking out laughs like nothing will ever, ever go wrong.

:::

Harry, unused to waking up in bed with _girls_ startles up quickly the next morning, only to slightly settle in when he realize Cher’s the one wrapped around him like a lover, which makes his morning semi _definitely_ flag. She’s beautiful, obviously, she’s decidedly lovely, but Harry was dreaming of Louis just before he woke up and this is swiftly becoming _odd._

He slides out from under the duvet and slips into the bathroom to take a shower, trying to clear his mind and breathe down deep into his gut. He doesn’t quite let the water grow cold, but he does spend a bit too long under the spray.

Cher’s still asleep when he gets back to the guest room, so he reluctantly plugs in his mobile and flicks through the messages he sent while drunk. The ones to Gemma aren’t so cringe-worthy, considering she was out on the lash with friends too, but he definitely sent two to Louis that contained unnecessary winky-faces and fruit emojis. With no response from Louis.

His face and neck flush, but he ignores the urge to apologize. Instead he goes onto instagram and twitter and tumblr and checks his email and is about to open up his fucking kindle app before Cher starts to stir. He starts babbling at her until she swats him with a pillow and stumbles out of the room, leaving him sitting on the floor, staring at his mobile.

 

Their breakfast is pleasant, most of Cher’s friends having stayed the night too. They all mumble and mutter at one another until everyone is sufficiently caffeinated and hydrated. At one point Harry notices Johnny something-or-other giving him funny looks until Cher elbows them both. 

“Soz if I forgot to mention. Johnny’s my ex. Johnny, Harry’s not going to punch you out. Don’t punch him out. Peace and love.”

“That seems noble,” Harry cedes, grabbing a box of granola so he can pour some into his yoghurt.

“Seems like you’re expecting a lot of us, too,” Johnny grumbles,

“Civility isn’t that much, JB, and remember I still have your nudes,” Cher mutters, putting down a pitcher of orange juice and looking strangely peppy considering she drank her weight in spirits the evening just before. And given that she weights approximately two stone.

“Low blow, CL. Low blow.” Johnny huffs a breath out and picks up his fork before, once again, turning his curious gaze to Harry. “Not gonna intervene?”

“She can handle herself,” Harry reasons slowly, and he’s rewarded when Cher nods succinctly. “Why?”

“Thought you’d get your hackles up to defend your girlfriend, that’s all.”

Cher hits Johnny in the face with a piece of eggy bread and Harry cackles so loudly he almost topples over. They offer no explanation, merely return to their breakfast and give one another secret glances.

:::

The return to halls is about as painful as their retreat, given that they’re just as hungover on Sunday as they were on Friday, staring into the grey sky out the placitcised glass windows.

“I had fun,” Harry murmurs, stomach roiling, thinking back to his game of ice-cream-pong versus Cher’s uncle. Even though—

“You ate four solo cups of vanilla bean before remembering you’re mildly lactose-intolerant.”

“Not to mention the brain freeze,” he says on an exhale, eyes closing easily. “Thanks for inviting me, love.”

“Thanks for coming. Good snuggler, you are.”

“You too.”

Cher once again sets her head on Harry’s shoulder and they doze until they return to campus.

:::

Harry’s return is a fluorescent and loud one, given that Louis nearly tackles him as he gets back to halls. “Bout time, boyo, come with me!” he demands, clutching Harry’s wrist and directly dragging him back out of the building.

“I’m either still drunk or really hungover, Lou, please handle with care!”

“Shan’t. Seriously, come on.” He bodily pulls Harry back out of the building with his knapsack still slung over one arm.

“Where—”

“No time!”

“No, but really—” Harry tries again as Louis pulls him down the pavement.

“No but really,” Louis echoes, “Mortimer insists.”

“Mortimer,” Harry responds slowly. “Mortimer the deer?”

:::

They venture to the grungey pub and Harry watches as Louis takes nearly fifty photos of the deer-head he once stole, while making doe-eyes at the bartenders who are giving him suspicious looks.

Afterwards they climb to the top of the biggest res hall on campus, throwing balled-up pieces of paper at passersby down below.

 

:::

As Reading Week nears, Harry plans out some time to work on his submission to the drama club. He eschews the library because the thought of working there makes him want to vomit, and he cannot work in his own room because Niall keeps quietly pretending not to watch porn on his laptop with headphones in.

Harry barely has the heart to call him on it, merely saying he can _give some space_ should Niall need it. Niall gives him a grateful little smile, almost abashed, and Harry flees down to front hall. Luckily most people still around are feeling lazy and sociable, still in comfy clothes and playing table games. Harry spies Settlers of Catan, Magic, chess, and Cards Against Humanity. 

He settles down to watch Luke, Josh, and Ashton try to best one another at Settlers, eyelids drooping the longer he watches. He pulls out a notebook he’s barely used and settles back an empty chair, convinced he’s going to write dialogue for at least an hour.

 

He write two lines.

He writes two lines before he gets involved in Cards Against Humanity and gets dozey, leaning against Jade’s leg as his eyes droop closed.

 

He wakes up forty minutes later as Louis and Zayn both drop on top of him. “You don’t—you don’t even go here,” Harry mutters, eyes flicking to look at the scene before him.

“Dude, he’s my old roommate, he used to live in halls with me.” Louis tips his head to one side and thumbs against Harry’s cheek, right where his dimple ought to be.

“Nighty night, Z,” Harry says, dropping bodily onto the carpet, folding his arms into a pillow.

 

The rest of Reading Week is more passable, although even less structured, but a friend of Leigh-Anne’s takes pity on him and agrees they can be writing partners. Jesy sets up shop in the lounge, near the dilapidated ping-pong table but also near the radiator. 

She flicks some glossy brown hair off her shoulder before narrowing her eyes at Harry. “I’m not stopping until I reach 1,000 words.”

“Oh, good idea.”

“Don’t distract us, yeah?”

Harry bites his bottom lip. “Okay.”

They type without making conversation, with no music or any distraction to accompany their writing. Harry doesn’t lose track of time but it seems that Jesy does, because her eyes go glossy and her fingers fly over the keys of her laptop. Harry pokes at his mobile too much, checking facts and looking for synonyms. 

Before he knows it, she says, “That’s my thousand, love. You gonna stick around?”

“Yeah, just a bit more to go!” he lies, poking repeatedly at the S-key.

“All right,” she says slowly. “I’ll check in on you before dinner, remind you about food?”

“Thanks, J.” He squeezes her hand and sighs heavily. As soon as she leaves the lounge, he drops his head to the tabletop. Over the course of the next hour, he pecks out a few words at a time, mostly portions of dialogue and stage direction. He sips languidly from his mug of tea, sighing heavily.

Eventually he slides out of his chair and sits on the floor, picking at the hems of his trackies. He knocks his head back to lie on the seat of his chair and closes his eyes again.

He is absolutely and utterly asleep when he’s yanked out of his dreams because his head gets yanked sideways. He gasps into consciousness, flailing out before he drops backwards onto the floor. His forearms prop his body in place so he can stare at his intruder. “Lou?” he asks blearily, peering up at Louis, who’s looking at him stonily.

Louis lets go of him so Harry can clamber to a seated position while Louis crouches beside him, sighing. “Christ, Haz.” He rubs at his own bleary eyes.

Harry reaches out to touch the knuckles of Louis’ hand, the one folded a bit between their two bodies. “Did—did you yank me by the hair to—to uh. To like, motivate me?” Harry licks at his lips, and he can feel his face flushing. So quickly removed from sleep, he reckons his pupils are a bit blown, and he knows he’s breathing hard.

Louis reaches his other hand out to Harry’s hair, pulling at his fringe _hard._ “Yes?” he says, but his voice is tentative and unsure. Harry’s not exactly used to hearing Louis say anything unsure, but his senses like it. Louis’ voice sends a trill up his spine.

Harry lets his eyes fall shut again. “Not— just then, that wasn’t exactly motivating in the way you meant it to be. Right then. Mate. Probably.”

“How.” Louis clears his throat. “How do you know?”

“You just said—” Harry tips his head sideways, looking at Louis with wild, manic eyes.

“H, I’ve wanted to get my hands on your hair since I first fucking _saw_ you,” Louis exhales on a moan before his jaw clamps shut.

“Oh thank Christ.” Harry surges up to pull at Louis’ hair too, closing his eyes before trying his best to press his lips to Louis’ own. It’s fumbled and awkward and their teeth clack once, making them laugh into one another’s mouths. The tension dulls a bit, but arousal starts to coil slowly in Harry’s chest as Louis yanks at his hair again, hard enough that he hisses.

Louis pulls back and slowly opens his eyes, which have gone a bit glassy. “We can’t do this here.”

“There’s a _this_ to do? What are we doing?” Harry asks stupidly, falling back into his seat.

“We’re going to my room, that’s what we’re doing.” Louis pulls him to standing with one hand on his wrist, and then he waits impatiently as Harry collects his belongings. “Did you even get any writing done, Haz? God.”

“I got _distracted,”_ Harry groans, arms circling his notebook and laptop.

“That’s true,” Louis says with a hum. He gallops out of the room, a manic grin wide on his face. Harry skips to catch up and they laugh their way up the stairs. Louis’ door is on the latch, the deadbolt out and propping it open slightly, so he doesn’t have to fumble for his key. Harry follows him in and immediately drops his things onto the desk chair, and all of his pens fall onto the floor.

Louis laughs, gently, and pulls Harry to him by the hem of his shirt. “What’s that saying? Haste makes waste?”

“Who are you to talk? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sit still.”

“Sitting still is for chumps,” Louis argues, plucking at Harry’s shirt more insistently until Harry just shucks it off.

“Why didn’t we do this sooner?”

“We still haven’t decided what _this_ is.”

“Seriously though,” Harry tries again, emboldened by the pretty pink flush in Louis’ cheeks.

“You never—it wasn’t concrete, it was just banter.” Louis shrugs, stepping out of his shoes and breaking eye contact.

“I’ve been flirting with you like _mad_ all term!”

“You flirt with _everyone.”_

“I do not!” Harry drops his arms to his sides, unsure whether to undo his jeans or not. “And anyway, I never— _did_ anything. With anyone. Else.”

“You never did anything with me either.” Louis looks up at him and his eyes are still hazy, so not all of his hope is lost.

Harry sighs heavily and drops to his knees to pull down the waistband of Louis’ trackies. “Well. I’m doing something now.”

“I—I can see that.” Louis inhales sharply as Harry tugs on the grey material and his stomach goes concave as he exhales. He doesn’t have pants on beneath his sweats, which makes Harry smile.

“Bed,” Louis stutters, “there’s a perfectly good bed just a foot away.”

“I’m fine if you are,” Harry muses, taking Louis in hand and pumping slowly back and forth.

“Swell,” Louis agrees, then scrunches up his face. “The pun was accidental,” he admits as Harry works him over delicately.

“It’s working, though. I like to hear you talk,” Harry adds, palming himself through the zip of his jeans.

“Good thing I never shut up, then.” Louis tips his head back and _keens_ when Harry thumbs at the head of his dick, which is leaking slightly. “Fucking A, how are you like this?”

Harry doesn’t respond; rather he kneels forward and licks kitten-light at Louis’ tip and tries not to smile when Louis curses him out. Then he’s at it with gusto, sucking Louis down to the hilt, opening his throat so much that his nose nits Louis’ abdomen. Louis starts pulling at Harry’s hair again, making his eyes water and his mouth salivate sloppily.

Louis keeps pulling and Harry can barely breathe, so he smacks Louis on the hip with one hand until he backs off slightly. Louis keeps a firm grip on Harry’s hair but doesn’t use it to lever Harry forward anymore—he just yanks periodically so that Harry whines and tightens his throat.

Harry palms at himself again, the other hand steady on Louis’ hip, keeping their balance in check. His hearing blanks out to a low buzzing for a minute until Louis pulls at his hair particularly hard and they come simultaneously: Louis spilling hot down Harry’s throat and Harry spurting painfully into his own jeans.

Louis collapses to sit cross-legged and half-dressed in front of Harry, pets his sweaty face and tries to thumb open Harry’s skinnies. Harry’s protest comes out croaky and hoarse but Louis kisses his forehead gently and undoes the fly. He picks up a flannel from his bedside table but wrinkles his nose at it. After a moment he simply pulls off his own t-shirt to clean Harry up, before moving his own sweats back into place. He collapses onto his back and starfishes out, poking Harry with one foot.

“Fucking hell, H. I didn’t even close the door all the way.”

Harry shrugs and tips forward into Louis’ open embrace, pillowing himself on Harry’s chest. “They’d have heard us anyway. No insulation in this drafty old place, is there?”

“And no one should have to be deprived of my dulcet tones, huh?” Louis cuts in sardonically. “A tragedy that would be.”

Harry bites his lip. “Uh. I think I just got an idea for my script.”

 _“What?”_ Louis squawks. “Finally fucked some sense into you, have I?”

“Every boy’s gotta have a muse.” Harry, still half-dressed and now a little sticky, sits up to retrieve a notebook and pen.

“Oh don’t mind me then.” Louis shunts himself upright and leans on his forearms.

“I don’t.” Harry flicks the notebook cover open and takes the cap off his pen, laughing when Louis heaves a heavy sigh in his direction. He stands up and moves directly to his bed, leaving Harry on the floor.

“I’m taking a nap. Don’t draw dicks on my face if you know what’s good for you.”

Harry gets out most of a draft as he listens to Louis’ quiet snoring, completely shirtless and sitting on the threadbare carpeting.

:::

“You’re doing a modern retelling of an ancient Greek tragedy?” Louis asks, pouring himself some water during a Wednesday-noon lunchtime in halls.

“I’m trying to, yes, Louis.”

“Which one? I think dibs have already been called on _Pygmalian and Galatea.”_

Harry laughs. “I could never home to outshine _Pretty Woman!”_

Louis blinks, throwing a salt packet at Harry’s head. “I meant _My Fair Lady,_ you twat.”

“Hardly modern, is it? No, I was thinking about _The Bacchae,_ you know? Followed Dionysus, really liked to party?”

Louis nods slowly.

“And it’s, like, the moral is so ambiguous, right, but some people reckon it’s about denying either side of a person, like the primal _or_ the pragmatic, that you need both and either extreme is basically going to end in unmitigated disaster. Right? And it’s been made modernized before, duh, but I kept thinking what better place to set it than, basically, here, right? This is one of the best universities in the world and yet half the time all we want to do is drink and fight and fuck, and it’s so undignified, isn’t it, but we need that too, need to balance it out. Right?”

Louis blinks rapidly and gapes for a moment. “If any of the dialogue is that detailed or run-on, I’m cutting it.”

“It _fits_ though! Like some faculty or administrators view Dionysus as this false prophet or hellraiser when really it’s just—” Harry’s voice peters out. “I swear to God if you tease me about this, I’ll cry.”

“I’m not mocking,” Louis says slowly, drumming his fingers on the table. “Bacchanalia’s an interesting thing to explore.”

“I sense a _but_ coming in.”

Louis shrugs. “I can’t decide if I’d rather direct or act in it. _If_ you do the concept justice.”

“I will!”

“Be bold, eh? The committee won’t back it otherwise.”

“I produce great work when I’m properly inspired,” Harry sniffs.

“Freshly fucked, more like.”

“Hey!”

“Admit that you compared me to Dionysus and I’ll let it go.”

“No.”

“God of wine and dicking about? Really? With the horns and everything?” Louis smirks.

“Drop it. I’ve got editing to do.”

“Fine.” Louis sighs. “Hey, what are you doing tonight?”

“Editing.”

“Take a break and come with me somewhere.”

“Maybe,” Harry demurs.

Louis rolls his eyes. “It’ll be fun, I promise. Gotta go find Zayn, eh? Text me.”

:::

Harry spends his afternoon writing, so much so that his hand cramps up and he can’t stand to look at his own writing anymore. He stretches his hand and pouts a bit, sparing glances for his silent mobile. He unlocks and locks it three times, until he mentally smacks himself and opens up his text-stream to Louis.

_Okay, I give, Where we going?_

He receives an immediate response, a _gr8 bro, meet me after dinner in front hall somewhere gona be sickk !!_

:::

 

Louis slings an arm around Harry’s shoulders and they head out of halls. “Zed is meeting us there,” Louis explains, voice alight with excitement.

“Where is there?”

“The only tattoo parlour worth its salt here! Actually, the only one full-stop, so here’s hoping, eh?”

“Are—are you joking?”

“It _is_ the only one. But it’s good, no worries.”

“How many do you have, then? What was your first?” Harry sputters out, cheeks warming.

“I don’t know. Um. The first was this stick-and-poke thing, this skateboard man on my arm,” Louis says, flicking himself in the bicep. “You hiding one on your bum, eh?” he asks next, moving his arm down to grasp Harry’s hand in his own.

“Nope. Virgin skin here.” Harry bites his lip over a smile, and the rest of the walk to the parlour is silent but comfortable.

Zayn is leaning against the wall, cigarette between his lips and one leg cocked up so his Doc Marten is pressed against the bricks, all smokey confidence and a leather jacket. Harry snorts and ducks his chin down.

“What?” Louis asks, pulling on his hand.

“He’s secretly an idiotic goofball, isn’t he?”

“Oh, Christ, you have no idea.” Louis rolls his eyes. “It’s a fucking front of epic proportions, but we love him.”

“Or something.”

“Nah, we love him. Fresher roommates, blood for life. Partners in crime,” Louis adds, kicking Zayn in the ankle with one foot. “Right, Zed?”

“Lou,” Zayn says on an exhale, eyeing Harry up. “Brought this one, did you?”

Harry’s cheeks flare up at this but he steels himself. _Bold._ “This one has a name, funny enough. Do you?”

Zayn drops his cigarette and narrows his eyes before stomping it out. “You’re Harry, then?”

“Hi, Zayn, good to see you too, digging the smoulder. Shall we?” he asks brightly, setting his jaw.

Louis laughs loudly, throwing his hands in the air. “Fuck you both.”

“He passes,” Zayn says grudgingly, stopping down to pick up a knapsack at his feet.

“Kind of you.” Harry bites his lip and raises a brow.

“K, pissing contest done, time for my totally awesome tattoo. Let’s lad it up!” Louis claps his hands and barges into the shop—so Zayn and Harry both roll their eyes and follow him in. Zayn opens his bag up while Louis talks to the clerk behind the till—who’s inexplicably American and very bearded—and Zayn removes a sketchbook from inside it.

“You did the mock-up?” Harry asks, no longer trying to police his tone.

“Shit yeah, look!” Zayn opens his sketchpad and hands it over, the white page covered in a charcoal etching of a deer head.

“Goddamn it, Louis, you’re getting Mortimer tattooed on your fucking _body?”_ Harry crows, shoving the sketchpad at Zayn.

Louis turns to look over his left shoulder, giving Harry a bright grin. “Be fucking bold, baby.”

Harry shakes his head. “Might as well.”

 

Harry sits transfixed as Louis settles into the tattoo artist’s chair, watches as his arm gets swabbed with alcohol and they speak casually of rendering and style and the stencil.

“So like, you’ve been planning this?” Harry asks belatedly, watching as Tom, the owner of the shop, pulls out a purple-ink picture of a deer on translucent paper.

“Yeah, course, Curly. Got a zillion others, why not Morty too?”

Harry blinks, tongue caught on the roof of his mouth. “I—I wish I knew.”

“Exactly,” Louis says on an out-sigh. “And you’re next.”

 

Harry is next, and he ends up with a goddamn _might as well_ right by his waist and he knows his mother and Gemma will ream him out and lord knows he doesn’t care.

 

Given two hours, Louis has a new tattoo of a deer-face on his arm, with a goddamn heart between its antlers, and Harry has his itchy script inked into his skin. And he’s half-listening to Zayn tell him that _The Bacchae_ script is the most pretentious thing he’s ever heard of, and Harry’s not even slap-fighting, is instead telling Zayn that _tastes differ._ Really he’s being very mature, before Louis jumps onto Zayn’s back and says he’s being _a cock._

“Like my boy, Zaynie, honestly. You’re being a cock.”

“I don’t _dislike_ your boy—Harry, sorry—I just—” Zayn stutters.

“You’re not getting any. Fine. Okay. Don’t take it out on us—” Louis laughs.

“Shut it, Lou,” Zayn snaps. “I do way too much for you. This is ridiculous.” He sighs heavily, shrugging his bag higher onto his shoulder.

Harry shrugs. “Join drama and someone somewhere’s gonna probably be down. I’m not sure if you’re into gir—”

“Deal.”

:::

Harry’s script demands a lot of editing once he sits down and actually reads the damn thing, but he applauds himself on a job—if not well-done—at least completed. He bribes Jesy and Cher to look at it, figuring his weekly budget can allow for two bottles of Tesco-brand vodka rather than just the one. 

Realistically he’s desperate, and Jesy and Cher are the two people he can corral at the moment: Jesy because she demands Harry read her erotic fanfiction and Cher because she needs a break from her astrophysics, using various words that Harry really doesn’t understand.

“It’s good but it needs more sex,” is Jesy’s expert opinion.

“I like it and I don’t get it at all,” Cher says with a shrug. “Otherwise I just neatened up some grammar shit.” She considers him slowly. “It’s pretty slutty, yeah?”

:::

Harry’s script gets approved by the committee along with four others, and Louis opts in to direct it, rolling his eyes indulgently when Harry smiles at him shyly during lunch. “It’s not about you, Haz, honestly,” he insists, flicking a bit of water into Harry’s face. But he also hooks their ankles together beneath the table and graces Harry with multiple private smiles. So it might be a wash.

:::

The results are both positive and overwhelmingly negative. It affords Harry the chance to see Louis much more, but they’re also too busy to fuck around much. And really, Harry reckons Cher was right—the script _is_ slutty, and it riles everyone up more than smooths them out.

Louis snorts at Harry when he points this out, frustratedly working on some stage direction that needs fixing. “Bacchanalia basically means orgy, H, which you should know. You fucking wrote the thing.” He folds his copy of the script open, tapping it with the eraser of his pencil.

“I may have gotten into this under false pretenses,” Harry admits slowly from his cross-legged spot on Louis’ bed.

“I know that, but you’re not getting out of doing this thing up right.”

“No, I—I’m not trying to get out of this, god, Lou. I’m just so damn sick of looking at my own words, it’s tripe right now, I swear.”

Louis sighs. “Fine, that’s fair.” He drops the script and moves to sit next to Harry, letting their sides bump together. “Drop it for a minute, just talk at me. Yeah?”

Harry puts down his own beaten-up script. ”Yeah.”

“Okay. Just talk to me. What are we going for, what are we doing with this? It’s easy to say grand-scale uni orgy, but that’s not art, it’s porn. Right? The dialogue’s fine—no, hush,” he insists as Harry moves to interrupt. “The dialogue’s fine. Solid and colloquial banter, mate,” he adds with a smile. “But what’s the vibe, the scene? What are we meant to feel? How do we _stage_ this?”

Harry inhales slowly. “God.”

“What do you want us to feel, viewing this?”

“Is this how directors normally direct?” Harry asks, attempting to lighten his tone. It still comes out morbid.

“No. But the director’s only occasionally boning the playwright. So. Advantage me.” Louis elbows him lightly. “Come on, Haz. Enlighten the unwashed among us.”

Harry nibbles at his bottom lip, considering. “It’s about—it’s about that feeling, fuck, when everything’s open wide and so bright, but you’re so ramped up and pressed in close to someone, to everyone, that you feel connection down to your _blood,_ like you’re busting apart with beauty. And you know it’s silly and your brain uses big words to tell you to tamp it all down, and that makes sense, but not right away. Because first you just need to _feel_ it, to let yourself _have_ it. To revel in something.” He rubs his nose with one hand, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Well, H.” Louis’ voice rings with amusement. I’d say we have ourselves a concept.”

“Don’t ever make me repeat that speech,” he mutters, cheeks flaming up.

“I’ve a videographic memory. And also? I’m _clearly_ a first-rate muse, if I dicked that out of you.”

“How poetic.” Harry flicks Louis’ nose and only squawks once when Louis tickles him so hard he falls off the bed.

:::

Harry wakes up two days later to Niall humming _Jesse’s Girl_ and eating Pot Noodle, wearing only a pair of checkered boxers. “Dignified,” Harry groans, running one hand through his fringe.

“Oh, gracing me with your presence are you? Bless.”

Harry sighs. “Ni. My beautiful shining star. Are you trying to tell me something?”

“You never buy me anything pretty anymore, never take me anywhere nice.” Niall flips a snapback off his desk and onto his head with a fluid movement that Harry envies. “Aren’t we golf bros anymore?”

“If I buy you nachos, will you forget I’m a terrible mate?”

“No.” Niall flips him the V and narrows his eyes.

“Hey.” Harry levers himself up, face going stony. “Hey. Come on.”

“I demand a lads’ night. Where you might be my wingman, if you’re up to the task.”

Harry smiles, feeling sleep-rumpled and indulgent. “Anything for my main man.”

“Good. Bout time you sorted out those priorities.”

 

They head to the sports complex’s indoor driving range within an hour, a rolling guilty feeling in Harry’s belly as he looks at the bright smile on Niall’s face. “Hey, bro. Good idea. Perfect Saturday.”

Niall slaps him gently on the neck and doesn’t reply, handing him a wire basket of golf balls.

 

That night they’re drunk by nine, loping along the pavement from pub to club in the _group of lads_ Niall’s collected, mates from courses and halls and socs. Harry’s tipsy and moony and ridiculous, trying to be Niall’s devoted friend who also evening-dreaming (day-dreaming?) about Louis’ dick. It’s a mess more than not, laughter and spilled pints. At one point Niall buys a vibrating cock ring from a dispenser in the toilets, and “makes” Harry sit in his lap.

Harry is pretty sure their whole group browns out during karaoke, but he doesn’t really consider it until the next morning, sour stomach roiling and eyes stuck shut. Rather than examine his situation, he shoves his head into his pillow and tries to fall back asleep.

It doesn’t work.

Instead he stews in his own discomfort for a few hours and tries to recount every potentially embarrassing thing he did the night before. He listens to Niall’s quiet snoring from across the room and dreams of death _a bit_ before telling himself he’s being too dramatic.

He drags himself out of bed and trudges to the shower, where he eventually gets so light-headed he needs to sit down and contemplate his life choices.

:::

Cher tries to cheer him up by putting temporary tattoos of butterflies all over his arms. It helps a bit, but Harry indulges himself with self-pity for awhile. It turns into cold-gut panic when Louis reminds him they have only one week until the exhibition. He flails a bit and falls on the ground, flinging one hand over his eyes.

“I’m too hungover for this,” he practically wails.

“Dude, calm your tits. You don’t even really need to do anything else, I was just going to ask you something about some blocking.”

Harry bites his lip. “Sorry.”

“Dramatic little boy, aren’t you?” Louis says with a sharp smile, raising one brow at him. “Someone ought to see to you.”

“You offering?” Harry asks, genuinely intrigued by the idea, horny and half-hard at the best of times, even when he’s not constantly talking about fucking in the middle of a forest.

“Once you’re not a hungover squid, maybe. Can’t have you puking on my duvet.”

“I would never,” Harry responds seriously. “Got too good a hold on my gag reflex for that.”

Louis groans. “We’ll do the blocking and then I’ll see to sorting you out.”

:::

 

They don’t act on it until that night, demurring on going to the Magic 8 with a group planning what Louis referred to as a _maniacal rager._ “Coke’s not really my scene anymore.”

Harry tucks away the _anymore_ and then his brain stutters grey as Louis locks the door with a click and a smirk.

“I feel like you should turn on George Michael’s _Careless Whisper_ and saunter here all seductively.”

Louis huffs out a loud breath. “Shut up.” He rolls his eyes and cocks on slim hip.

“Oh my god, you have no game at all, do you?” Harry can feel his own dimples pop as he grins brightly. He bites at his lip and sits down on Louis’ unmade bed, raising a brow. “Well?”

“God, you’re such a little shit,” Louis growls, launching himself off of the door to pin Harry to the mattress with one leg. Face set, he clambers into Harry’s lap, bracketing Harry’s legs and grinding down. His hands move to Harry’s hair, yanking at random curls.

“O-oh, okay, consider me corrected. Shit, Lou.” Harry whines, eyes falling shut. He drops backwards onto his forearms, bringing Louis with him. They fumble for a moment, Louis seated hard on Harry’s legs, grinding their dicks together between four-odd layers of material.

“I take it back, I take it back,” Harry says breathlessly, cock fattening up in between their bodies.

“No, you need to be taught a lesson,” Louis counters, pulling down hard on Harry’s hair. Harry’s eyes water and he groans low in his throat. His fingers grapple at the hem of Louis’ t-shirt, trying to get purchase on Louis’ skin. He digs his fingers in hard to Louis’ bare hips, making a disappointed noise when Louis removes his hands from Harry’s hair. “Stop whining and take all of this sutff off us,” he demands, flicking open the fly of Harry’s skinnies.

Harry immediately acquiesces, slithering his hands into Louis’ shirt to take it off. It’s clumsy and stupid, a bit, but Harry loves it.

“Christ, I want to bite you _everywhere.”_

“Go ahead,” Harry groans, raking his eyes down to look at Louis’ kiss-gold skin and ridiculous jail-cell tattoos. Together, they pull each other’s clothes off and tumble successfully into bed, Harry tucking himself carefully amongst Louis’ flat pillows. Louis settles into his lap again and tucks his heels beneath Harry’s back, leaning forward to bite at Harry’s collarbones. “Hey, uh, L-lou, will you pull my hair ag—”

“I’ll take care of you, H, as long as you keep your hands to yourself. Think you can do that for me, baby?” Harry’s voices dies in his constricting throat, and he tucks his hands underneath the pillows. He nods solemnly to Louis, nibbling again at his bottom lip when they make eye contact. “There’s a lad.” Louis ducks back in and bites at Harry’s earlobe. “I’m the one seeing to you, remember?”

Harry snaps out a nod. “Sorting me out, yeah?”

“Taking care of my pretty little flirt,” Louis says, laughing brightly as he yanks again at Harry’s hair. He fans it out against the pillow and rubs one thumb down Harry’s thumb. “Reckon I can ride you if you behave, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes out, needy and insistent. He keeps his hands beneath the pillow but his hips skip upwards, making Louis chuckle again. “Go—gonna put on a show for me, if I have to keep my hands to myself?”

“I’ve a flair for the dramatic, love to leave an audience pleased.” Louis hops off of Harry and out of the bed entirely, body once again lithe in a way Harry doesn’t think he’s ever really seen outside of gymnastics and ballroom dancing. He feels his face flushing as he watches Louis gather things from his desk drawer and various other points in his room.

He sets down lube, a strip of a few condoms, and a set of graduated anal beads, which are purple and—

“Are those sparkly?”

“Gag gift from Zayn one year.” Louis shrugs. “Quite fond of them actually.” Louis opens the lube and coats up his fingers, kneeling beside Harry’s prone form.

“Don’t blame you.” Harry sighs a bit, trying not to pay attention to the fact that his own cock is heavy and leaking against his hip. Instead he watches Louis move one hand behind himself, watches Louis shift so that Harry has a better view of the curve of his arse. “Fuck,” Harry whines, fisting his hands into the underside of the pillow beneath his head, breathing in sharply. “So gorgeous.”

Louis leans onto his shins and picks up the anal beads, coating them with lube too. “These aren’t nearly as big as you, babe, but think they’ll help get me prepped? Think you can stand to watch and still be a good boy?” Again Harry whines, kicking out with one foot, but he mostly stays still. He mostly does. “I think you can.”

“I can.”

“You can be patient, yeah? Can wait for me to get on top of you and get my hands in your pretty hair,” Louis deadpans, lining the smallest bead up with his rim as Harry watches, transfixed.

“Yeah, anything, anything for you, Lou.” Louis’ eyes slip shut as he works the pliable beads inside himself, working them deeper and deeper until both he and Harry are breathless and sweaty. Louis leans forward, bracing himself against the wall beside his bed with one shoulder as he moves his other hand to fist at his cock. It’s gorgeous, is the thing, from Harry’s sideways view, the toy in Louis’ arse, the curve of his muscled thighs straining as he stays upright. Harry’s dying and ascending all at once, and he can’t entirely feel his limbs.

“You’ll live to regret that promise, babe,” Louis responds on an exhale, the beads working their way into the flared hilt, fully inside of Louis.

“Never.”

Louis pumps the toy as Harry watches, the room filling up with the scent of sex and the sound of slapping skin. Eventually Harry groans, low and loud, which punches a breathless laugh out of Louis. “I see how it is,” he tacks on, slowing his movements to a teasing pace. “You think I’m ready for you, is that it?”

“I-I was more hoping.”

“All right, love, all right.”

“Not if you’re not—” Harry starts, tucking his knees together and trying to deny Louis access.

“I’m fine.” Louis gives him an indulgent smile and pulls the beads out completely, setting them aside. “But are you?”

 _“More than,”_ Harry insists, nodding and letting his legs fall open again. “Do the honours, then?”

Louis rips a condom off the strip and opens it with his teeth, slowly rolling it down Harrys length as they both watch. Then Louis tosses the wrapper aside and picks up the bottle of lube, dribbling some into his palm before rubbing his hands together to warm it up. He knee-walks over the bed to Harry before working both hands over Harry’s sheathed cock, slicking him up. After a moment he moves to allow Harry access, angling their bodies so that Harry’s cock just nudges at his rim before breaching through.

They curse simultaneously, voices cracked and needy. Louis immediately seats himself hard onto Harry’s hips, forcing their skin together as he dicks Harry’s cock into himself. “Fuck but you’re big,” he exhales, tipping his head forward to lean against Harry’s tight collarbone. They both breathe through the squeeze, Harry feeling Louis open up around him slowly.

Harry bucks his hips up once Louis’ face goes slack, and they writhe against one another hard, Harry trying his mightiest to stay still, to be good. His hands clutch the pillowcase but his hips pop up and down, fucking into Louis while they moan against one another.

Louis plants his hands at Harry’s temple and pulls, first gently, before their rhythm picks up and they’re fucking hard, until Harry can’t even help that his thighs are flying off the mattress and his cock is dicking into Louis _so hard_ until everything is lightning and sunshine.

They fuck so long that Harry loses track of time, trying to hold off but his numb hands also distracting him, with Louis’ fingers yanking on his hair undoing him while turning his libido on high. He wants to make it good for Louis but he’s so far-gone that he comes just before Louis does, both moaning against one another’s skin, Louis fingers sunk hard into Harry’s scalp.

 

They wash together in the tiny hall shower, pressed against the walls and against one another. They don’t fuck again that night but they can’t stop kissing, and they do their best to ignore the noise of the freshers around them as they arrive home for the night.

At one point, Harry seats himself casually on Louis’ floor while Louis teases at his hair, pulling it into a neat-and-tidy fishtail braid that he claims his sister taught him. Harry stays half-hard until they fall asleep. He slips an elastic round it well before midnight.

 

:::

Later that month, Harry camps out side-stage during every practice staging of the Drama Soc’s exhibition, ducking his head when anyone asks who he is. Everything goes smoothly—his is the weakest play, he reckons, during the dress rehearsals, but the post-apocalyptic thing that Louis’ starring in is so good that Harry’s nearly palming himself in his jeans as he watches it.

But then he gets to see Louis just produce everything, just direct everyone, and he actually, embarrassingly, comes just by palming himself side-stage. He runs to the toilets in the back to clean himself up and he comes to a decision.

In a manner of speaking.

:::

Harry ducks into Louis’ room and sets a note onto his bed, grateful his door is on the latch. Then he goes to watch Louis fucking _smash it_ both as a director and actor, the exhibition ending in a standing ovation.

 

And, to his gratified self, Louis comes to meet him on the damn rock in the damn sea, and he brings a bottle of champagne.

“Love you, Lou,” Harry yells against the sound of the water.

“Loving you too, Curly. Now let’s have at it.”

 

Louis talks about his family as soon as they each have a glass of champagne in their systems, bright eyes catching the bit of starshine visible in the cold night. He’s excited to go home for the holidays, talks with pressured speech about his _six_ siblings, who Harry has only just figured out how to separate from one another. He’s most astonished about the two sets of twins, but apparently the trait is hereditary. “Which is just as well, since I’m proper broody and plan to raise, like, a whole footie team. Knocking that out with twins is just damn convenient, you know?”

Harry stutters out a laugh and nearly falls off the rock. _Babies._ Fuck. “You could just steal them,” he suggests lightly. “It’s what my college friends were always worried I was gonna do, just kidnap a child.”

“Hell no, Styles, you’d get murdered in prison!”

“Hey,” he drawls out, “How are you so sure I’d get caught?”

“You have all the stealth of a chimpanzee.” Harry pouts, making Louis laugh. “Don’t worry, I like chimpanzees. Always tempted to ask for one for my birthday or something.”

“I’ll try to find you one, in that case.” Harry takes a sip of the bubbly champagne, enjoying the fizz of it on his tongue.

“Doubt you can find one for me by then, sorry, Haz.”

“What? Why?” A few bubbles go up his nose, so he rubs it until he thinks he might sneeze.

“Because—because my birthday is Christmas Eve?” Louis says quietly, rolling his shoulders a bit.

“What?” Harry squawks out, feeling like more bubbles have gone up his nose. “Louis!”

“I didn’t mention that?”

“How could you not mention that! You literally never stop talking about chances for people to do shit for you, and you leave out the most important instance that is _your birth?”_

Louis snorts. “You make me sound like a bit of a greedy ponce.”

“No, I—not at all. You’re just engaging, is what I mean.”

“Am I engaging enough that you’re going to steal me a chimpanzee?”

Harry sighs. “Sorry, love. Not even Channing Tatum is that engaging.”

Louis holds one hand over his heart. “You’ve wounded me. I am much more adorable than Charming Potato.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Harry says, fisting one hand into Louis’ thick jacket so he can yank him closer. “Now come here.”

:::

 

Sweet and lighthearted as their night spent on a giant rock under the moonlight was, it sent Harry reeling a bit. Words like _bold_ and _forthright_ spin through his head, making him want to tear his hair out as he scribbled lists and texted people. Time was winding down as time tended to do, just like his mother always promised it did, but eventually his plan came together.

 

:::  
Two days before the end of term, Harry knocks exaggeratedly at Louis’ door and puts on a winning smile. Louis opens it with a flourish and a laugh. “Your crush on me is ridiculous, H. But so is the one I have on you. Wonder who the joke is on?”

Harry yanks gently on Louis’ feathery fringe before tucking some of his own hair behind his ear. He braided it the way Louis taught him, making it look like he had a delicate tiara framing his face. “Me, most likely.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure, then?” Louis very obviously bites the inside of his cheek.

“I’m treating you to a curry and a tour of the castle, on account of it’s your birthday coming up and I’m going to miss you desperately when you are millions of miles away from me.”

Louis’ gold skin takes on a bit of pink. “Mobiles work in England too, love. But I accept.”

“Bundle up. It’s cold.”

 

They hold hands on the walk to the curry shop, tugging their collars up against the midday chill. Harry has a warm spot right in the middle of his chest, behind his sternum. They duck into the shop and it’s not crowded, so they get a choice table where they can play footsie under the table. They order samosas and three kinds of curry along with generous pints. “I really am going to miss you,” Harry mutters at one point, when Louis has his drink up to his lips and can’t immediately respond.

“Hey. I’m right here.” Louis sets his pint down and leans forward to cup Harry’s cheek. And for that moment, the two of them are absolutely the most important people in the world.

 

They’re full and warm a just barely tipsy when they tour the castle and the weird museum full of dioramas and silly paraphernalia. They pull faces and take selfies but also pose for one another besides majestic views of old turrets and blinding views of the North Sea.

They meander back to halls slowly, and Harry requests they also take a tour of the cemetery while the sun’s still out. “Almost as morbid as your voice, innit?” Louis asks with a quirked brow, but he willingly leads the way. He points out the oldest headstone he’s managed to find, pulling another _alas poor Yorrick_ routine that will never cease to amuse Harry. Harry surreptitiously thumbs through his mobile and taps out a few messages before rolling his eyes to take more photos of Louis. He posts them unfiltered, because to be fair, Louis doesn’t need a damn filter. He needs a microphone and a soapbox and a kiss on the lips.

So Harry tugs him into a tight hug and kisses him repeatedly all over his cold face before clasping his hand again so they can walk back to halls.

 

Front hall is empty when they arrive and Louis looks around curiously. “Zombie apocalypse, you reckon?”

Harry shrugs. He hums and takes Louis by the hand again. “Let’s form a search party,” he suggests, leading him around the ground floor and towards the door to the side garden. He flicks the handle and pointedly ignores Louis’ questioning noise.

“H, it’s fucking freezing outside, why in God’s—” But his voice dies in his throat as he takes in the spectacle before them. For starters, there’s a huge tent that’s not quite a full marquee taking up most of the grass, set up with parquet flooring and heaters in every corner to ward off the chill. “What is—what?”

“Happy birthday, babe,” Harry mutters, biting at his bottom lip and tightening his grip on Louis’ hand.

 _“Surprise!”_ Niall yells, half-tackling Louis and licking his cheek sloppily. “We have cake!”

Harry, Louis, and Niall become hopelessly entwined, all of them yelling at one another and knocking legs. Eventually Niall licks Harry’s forehead and darts away, promising to get them both beers.

“What is this?” Louis murmurs, tucking his face in Harry’s shoulder, smiling against his skin.

“It’s a birthday party, it’s—a grand gesture, I dunno. It’s a tent full of a bunch of friends, booze, and a karaoke machine.”

“There’s _karaoke?”_ he crows, running head-long into the tent so he can get his name in the queue for a song. Or the entire soundtrack or _Grease._

Five other people yell _Surprise!_ at Louis, although it seems they’re probably even tipsier than Louis himself, given that everything was delivered ages before Harry and Louis even finished lunch. Niall shoves two beers at each of them and says _wey-hey_ before going to retrieve his own drink. They spot Jade and Leigh-Anne and Cher singing in a triad four songs in a row, claiming that they’ve formed Scotland’s _next big girlband._ Liam and Zayn seem to be taking turns doing whippets from cannisters of whipped cream, which is something Harry will definitely need to mock them for accordingly. Luckily, Luke and Ashton are in the center of the dance floor, pulling everyone closer together to grind and flail.

Louis looks down at his double-fisted drinks and back up at Harry, face bewildered. “Did you—you did all this?”

“Be bold, right? And who the better recipient than you, love?” Harry says on an exhale, moving one bottle to his other hand so he can circle an open arm around Louis’ shoulders. “Surprise.”

Louis hugs his arms around Harry’s waist, ducking his head into the cavern of Harry’s collarbone again. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

The upcoming expanse of break doesn’t seem so gutwrenchingly dismal when Harry has Louis in his arms or glowing gold in his presence, throwing popcorn at Niall and talking about summer loving. Louis eventually notices that Harry has commandeered—or rather, rented—Mortimer for the evening, and Louis kisses him hard for a full five minutes.

For now, nothing is hard or scary, and the afternoon fades into evening with Louis looking at Harry like everything around them is made of magic and starshine. He pokes at Harry’s dimple and calls him a beautiful sap, like his eyes aren’t a bit teary from appreciation and love.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I studied in Scotland for a year! This is a thinly-veiled fic about the uni I went to! If it’s not totally obvious, let me know and I will reveal all! Only a few of these experiences are mine, I didn’t find a GREAT LOVE or anything but hey, we’re not all Louis and Harry.  
> 2\. Scottish Gaelic aka “GAL-ic” is different than Irish “GAY-lic” but don’t ask me how, I am ignorant and American and I got laughed at every time I asked for help. I just know how to say CHEERS in Scottish Gaelic.  
> 3\. Fucking Beckett, fucking Sarah Kane, fucking Wilde, fucking Shakespeare, fucking Brontes, fucking everyone. I love literature. I am a pretentious twat. I have literally had that I HATE ACADEMIA panic about seventeen times. I have ranted about it more than thrice.  
> 4\. I visited my friends’ family and besties just outside of Glasgow and it was enlightening. Glasgow is weird. I didn’t actually explain it much here, but I definitely saw fistfights and puddles of blood.  
> 5\. I learned to drink in Scotland. Two-pound bottles of wine, lots of whisky, folks who really love anise-flavoured liquer. Damn, son. I nursed me some hangovers. My liver hates me. I hate me.  
> 6\. I kissed a lot of boys and a lot of girls in Scotland. I also ate a lot of candy and went into the North Sea more than I ought to have.  
> 7\. This is mostly accurate and also GOLF  
> 8\. I’m decent with the Brit-picking but if I got it wrong, blame me entirely, not anyone who helped me with this fic.  
> 9\. Fuck Greek tragedies! This is so pretentious I’m sorry.  
> 10\. I don’t know much about the actual theatre but I did some backstage work here and there. All mistakes are entirely my own.  
> 11\. I LOVE HAIR KINKS AND BITING KINKS THANK YOU MY DARLING I HOPE THIS SUFFICED.


End file.
